


A Madness That Breaks Faith

by Good0mens



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, its what greg rucka would have wanted, killing each other as foreplay, the homoeroticism of sword fighting with the love of your life, they kill each other and then they fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good0mens/pseuds/Good0mens
Summary: The sand feels like it’s burrowed underneath Nicolò’s skin, behind his eyes, under his tongue. The air is desolate, drowsy and throbbing, distorting the horizon. The sun is a blunt shape, too bright to look upon, like Yusuf-They’re eye to eye now, dark blown irises meeting each other in a long moment that’s hanging in the cradle of something greater, approaching a new beginning.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 23
Kudos: 286





	A Madness That Breaks Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed this one!
> 
> The title is from 'Holy War' by Rainbow Kitten

The sand feels like it’s burrowed underneath Nicolò’s skin, behind his eyes, under his tongue. The air is desolate, drowsy and throbbing, distorting the horizon. The sun is a blunt shape, too bright to look upon, like _Yusuf-_

They’re eye to eye now, dark blown irises meeting each other in a long moment that’s hanging in the cradle of something greater, approaching a new beginning.

Yesterday, he’d died with Yusuf’s sword inside of him. Yesterday, he arose with the dawn, blood red cresting along the flat plains of his chest. Yesterday, he sought Yusuf out and returned the favour.

It’s been this way for days. He’d only learned Yusuf’s name when the man grew tired of Nicolò spluttering at him. So they traded names, then swords, then deaths. Then they rose up and started again.

He is so tired of fighting. Tired of the weary numbness in his limbs that makes his broadsword feel entirely too heavy in his palms.

There must be marks on his body somewhere, but he can’t feel it. He wants Yusuf to make him feel it. Wants the pain to linger like the ache in his chest. He wants Yusuf to tear, burn and split him open, to peel back each layer of his skin like a rose petal, wilted and doomed, curling into itself. Afraid. Or like the moon curves into the absent shape of itself at night. Alone.

Yusuf says something to him, but he doesn’t understand it. The only language they share is violence. Nicolò takes a steadying breath in and raises his sword again, and then everything becomes a blur of parries and slashes, until both their weapons are stained, until they’re both panting.

Yusuf advances on him again, and Nicolò’s back meets a tree, _hard,_ winding him. He tries to slow his breathing; he is a fish, gutted open, fighting all the air in his lungs. He thinks he asks for a reprieve, asks Yusuf to _stop, please._

Yusuf must hear something in his voice because he pauses, and cocks his head to the side like he’s considering something. Nicolo’s breathing returns to normal, but he doesn’t move. He feels like he’s waiting for something.

Yusuf takes a step forward, until they’re closer than they’ve ever been without killing each other. Something feral and debased runs through Nicolò’s gut, pushes his lips into a curl – but then Yusuf wraps his hand around the hilt of Nicolò’s sword where he’s gripping it, white knuckled.

Yusuf tugs on it, pulls his hips to Nicolò’s. Nicolò goes willingly, like he's in a dream. Yusuf slowly uncurls Nicolò’s fingers from the handle, gently prying each finger off, before letting the weapon drop to the ground.

Nicolò is breathing heavily still, but it feels different, heartbeat fluttering wildly in his chest. For a long moment, nothing happens. They stay like that, pressed up against each other, panting slightly from their earlier scuffle, staring into each other’s eyes.

_How long will we keep going like this?_

Hot pain sears across his gut from Yusuf’s scimitar cutting into him, and Nicolo responds by shoving the small blade he keeps tucked into his boot into Yusuf’s shoulder, just above his clavicle.

Perhaps their red string of fate is this; his dark lifeline spilled out by Yusuf’s scimitar, the red line of Yusuf’s blood that trickles down his jugular and meets the tip of Nicolò’s fingers where he grips Yusuf’s neck.

They’re leaning against each other, held up by the tree behind them, both bleeding out as their bodies try to fight the marks they’ve made on each other. Nicolò brings his other hand up to wrap around Yusuf’s body, holding them close together.

Nicolò is winding his own ribcage around himself like it could protect him from this feeling, entirely too beautiful for him, that’s threatening to turn his chest into a wildflower. He’s tried hiding this feeling in the sand, easy with the way it folds over and over and over each day. But they don’t stay buried for long; each time Yusuf looks at him it bursts out of him again. It must be so obvious, the way his eyes and hands linger far longer than they should.

Yusuf’s body slumps a little further against Nicolò as they heal. He smells like sand and sweat, and Nicolò breathes it in deeply, despite how it pulls on his stomach, making him wince in pain. He doesn’t move, even though he could easily abandon Yusuf here and get a head start away. He’s tried outrunning Yusuf before. And now, his heart is outrunning his body, watching his own pale hands hold Yusuf, stark against that beautiful dark skin.

He is immortal but he’s not sure he’ll survive it if Yusuf leaves now. He’s undying but has never felt more alive than in this moment, cut open on Yusuf’s blade, feeling as Yusuf’s pulse starts up again under his hands. He almost moans at the feeling.

_Tell me I’m alive._

He knows what the inside of Yusuf’s veins look like, has tasted Yusuf’s blood in his mouth like communion wine. What deeper intimacy is there to share?

Yusuf lifts his head, and he’s so much closer now, close enough to feel where Nicolò is half-hard underneath his clothing. Yusuf looks at him with those deep, big eyes, and Nicolò can’t look away. His pulse flickering in anticipation rather than fear, heart beating in a trochaic _Yu_ suf, _Yu_ suf, _Yu_ suf.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf murmurs, soft and warm, breath billowing against Nicolò’s face.

 _Oh,_ Nicolò thinks. That’s the way his name was meant to be said. This is the only way he wants to hear his name; drawn from Yusuf’s lips.

His pride escapes through his mouth, parted on some desperate plea.

When Yusuf leans in and kisses him, he is made anew.

Yusuf’s lips are honeyed hickory that sticks in Nicolò’s teeth when Yusuf moans against his lips. The slide of lips is urgent, but not unkind. Nicolò tightens his grip on Yusuf’s neck, but only to tug him in closer, because suddenly it’s _not enough, not enough, not enough-_

The sharp edge of teeth brush across his neck, and Nicolò bares it, rolls his head up and closes his eyes. Waits for that harsh pressure, for a blade, for a hand to slip around his neck and keep him down. 

When instead all he is met with is a kiss, so gentle he barely feels it, the sinews of his soul stitched together come undone. He lets out a ragged breath, tears stinging in his eyes. His hand on Yusuf’s neck moves to cup his jaw.

Yusuf takes his hand, kisses his fingers, even though it’s coated in his own blood, even though there’s dirt under his nails, even though there’s hard silver beneath the skin there.

His heart hurts like a bruise; hurts like if he plucked it from his chest like a fig, the skin would be wrinkled and dark; hurts like something soft and aching.

Fingers stroke along his temple, trail down his sternum, circle the soft flesh of his stomach. Tremors form under each touch; each small, barely contained quake beneath his skin betrays Nicolo’s fragility. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò whimpers, and he doesn’t know if he’s asking for more or less.

_How could you do this to me?_

And then:

_Please don’t stop doing this to me._

He’s known pleasure from others. Knows it as harsh hands in the dark, stripping his cock with furious need because the sin is from the pleasure so _please, please make it hurt._

This is so unlike that that it feels entirely new.

Yusuf’s touch is gossamer, is gilded, sunlit warmth as he kisses Nicolò along his lips and runs his hands along Nicolò’s body. Nicolò has only known these hands to harm him, but the more he looks upon them, the more they look like an artist’s hands, and Nicolò is unworthy clay, loose limbed and ready to be moulded by his capable fingers.

Some distant part of his mind is whispering, ‘ _you do not deserve this; your body is made for ruin, it is not for love, not for faith,’_ but Yusuf does not falter. He pinches one of Nicolò’s nipples over his tunic and Nicolò arches into the touch, suddenly overcome with the need to feel Yusuf _everywhere._

Nicolò could try to pretend that this is just another flirt with death, to pretend that they’re just flitting that fine line between fighting and fucking. But it doesn’t feel like victory when Yusuf sinks to his knees. It feels like defeat, like his own tender undoing.

Yusuf brushes his knuckles along the hard outline of Nicolò’s cock, just barely grazes the hot skin, and Nicolò sobs, cock twitching hard. Yusuf shoves his clothing just barely out of the way before he pauses, taking a moment to look at Nicolò’s flushed, hard prick.

His cock is weeping pre-come, wet enough that Yusuf slides his hand up and down in a loose fist easily. Nicolò pushes his hips into the touch, tries to follow Yusuf’s maddening grip. Yusuf places a hand on his hip, stilling it. Nicolò has to swallow a plead, because it is entirely too soon to be begging. 

Nicolò lets out a staggering breath when Yusuf takes him in hand, warm and tight. He moans when Yusuf’s thumb swipes over the head of his cock. Yusuf plays with the head, testing, teasing, teetering Nicolò along the edges of frustration, until he can’t think past this yearning need between his legs.

Nicolò is quivering by the time Yusuf kisses the stem of his cock. His tongue swirls around the tip, gathers up some of the pre-come he’s steadily leaking. Nicolò’s eyes widen, and he cannot look away as Yusuf dips his head further to take Nicolò into his mouth.

He moans when Yusuf closes his lips around his cock, creating a warm, wet cavern that Nicolò wants to thrust into without abandon. He doesn’t, pressed down by the gentle pressure of Yusuf’s hand on his hip.

It’s perfect, and Nicolò wants to tell him that he’s beautiful, that _he’s_ perfect, but then Yusuf does something with his tongue and all that comes out of Nicolo is a choked whimper.

Nicolò looks down, deliriously regards the way the freckles are dusted along Yusuf’s nose, wishes that he could be the sun that kissed those marks upon his cheek.

 _I would look back for you,_ he thinks, _like Lot’s wife in Sodom; I would turn into a pillar of salt just to see your face one last time._

He searches for Yusuf’s hand holding his hips back, threads their fingers together and grips them. His other hand finds its home in Yusuf’s curls along the nape of his neck. He curls his fingers into the strands. Not tugging or pulling, just holding it there. Yusuf closes his eyes and takes Nicolo in further.

Nicolò throws his head back against the tree, wincing slightly at the pain that bursts behind his eyes at the feeling. he’s almost dizzy with pleasure, and he tightens his grip on Yusuf’s hand, on his neck. He’s fighting every instinct in his body to just _take_ , because Yusuf is giving him the gift of his gentleness and Nicolò will not spoil it just because he is a wild mess.

When Nicolò is so far down Yusuf’s throat that he can feel it constricting around him, there’s a brief, horrible moment where Nicolò is overcome with the desire to hold Yusuf down on his cock until he comes. He recoils from it, and instead moves his hand from Yusuf’s neck and traces a shaky finger along Yusuf’s cheek, his bearded jaw.

Yusuf opens his eyes and looks up at him, levels him with a steady regard. Nicolò stills, heart leaping in his throat, pounding against his chest. Then Yusuf swallows around Nicolò’s cock, and it’s all over.

He cries out and comes in Yusuf’s mouth, and he bites his own hand to stop from jerking into Yusuf’s mouth, to stop himself from shoving into that heat and gripping roughly at Yusuf’s shoulder. His legs are still shaking when Yusuf pulls off, and places a single kiss to the skin of his groin.

His own body weight feels far too heavy all of a sudden, knees buckling. Nicolò throws his body, his blade, his life down before Yusuf.

He kisses Yusuf, all teeth and biting desperation, far harsher than Yusuf. He wants to say _I’m sorry, I don’t know how to be gentle, all I am is forsaken faith and blood stained hands_ , but Yusuf just groans and tugs him in harder, lets Nicolò bruise his jaw with how hard he grips it, lets Nicolò leave little marks on Yusuf where he dares to touch.

Yusuf pulls away long enough to brush his thumbs along Nicolò’s jaw. Nicolò drops his eyes to Yusuf’s neck and runs his unsteady fingers lightly along the dark crusted blood on his skin there. Traces where the scar should be, the outline of violence. He flicks his gaze back to where Yusuf is looking at him.

 _I’ll learn_ , he thinks as Yusuf pulls him into another kiss, _to be soft for you._


End file.
